


Ashes, Ashes, Don't Let Me Fall Down

by dearcst



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture, Wings, wing!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1803367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcst/pseuds/dearcst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because to angels, Falling in love has a completely different meaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes, Ashes, Don't Let Me Fall Down

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in season four when Castiel is dragged back to Heaven. My little head's version of what happened.

Ashes, Ashes, Don’t Let Me Fall Down

 

                Angels felt differently than humans. The only part of their physical being that was sensitive to the outside world was their wings when materialized. Their actual body was more of a presence than an actual, physically-touchable thing, and so, to inflict shock, to inflict love, to inflict happiness, to inflict warmth, to inflict _pain_ , it was through their wings.

                Castiel was one who was described with having more “heart” than others, and though angels don’t have hearts, those whom have met Castiel would argue that. Angels were built as soldiers. Soldiers do not _feel_ , soldiers do not _tire_ , soldiers do not _think_ , and soldiers most definitely do not _love_. There may be some degree of disgust among angels who come to encounter Castiel, for however transparent he may seem to humans, the excruciatingly obviousness of his love is too much for angels to bear. God may have said to love all, but not one angel was to say to love _this much_.  And so when Castiel became disobedient, when he felt doubt, angels knew exactly where this originated. Doubt was not celestial. It was humane.

                “You do not serve man,” Zachariah seethed under the sound of screaming. “You serve heaven.”

                The blade cut deeper, deeper, deepest and slashed through the flesh of Castiel’s left wing. Castiel gasped for life and writhed against his bounds. His vision was soon blacked out, and Castiel was sickened to find he was relieved. Even the pain that burned into his being was nothing compared to the sight of watching. _God, Father, please make them stop_ , He found himself praying, _How have I sinned?_

                There was nothing, only agony dripping like venom from a knife and Castiel was intoxicated. He let out another screech as a bone snapped.

                “Your disobedience is intolerable,” Zachariah’s voice continued in the darkness and Castiel felt a wave of fear overcome him. “You will not disobey.”

                “I will not disobey,” Castiel sobbed and gasped through his dry throat. It was meaningless to say anything else. “Stop. Stop, please.”

                “You are Falling,” Zachariah tightened his grip on Castiel’s wing, and it would be foolish for him to even pretend not to hear his scream. Another cut, another rip, another snap. “And I will hold you down and get this sin out of you.”

                “I only wish to do as God commands,” Castiel tried. “I only wish for purity.”

                “Those humans are impure,” Zachariah shouted and ripped at the feathers.

                “I will not disobey,” Castiel repeated. He wanted only to get back to Dean. _Dean_. Somehow he felt stronger.

                _Cut, rip, snap_. “Your disobedience is a problem,” _Cut_ , “But it is not,” _Rip_ , “where the problem begins.” _Snap_.

                Castiel let out another of countless screams, summing up his strength to reply through the sandpapery devastation that was his throat. “I do not—I do not understand.”

                “You do not serve man,” if one were counting the times it was spoken, one would go mad. “You serve heaven, and you certainly do not serve _Dean_.”

                Castiel felt his heart lunge at the mention of Dean. What did he have to do with any of this? “I still—“ he coughed and winced, “I still do n-not—do not understand.”

                “Your,” _pluck_ , “Revolting infatuation with him.”

                Through the darkness Castiel could feel Zachariah’s look of utter disgust. One by one, his feathers were plucked out, ripped out, and there was the crackling of a fire as they were burned. Castiel was out of screams, his mouth agape with a soundless whimper escaping. _Father, please, I have not sinned_ , Castiel prayed, _Please, I have not_.

                “You serve heaven,” Zachariah repeated. “You do not serve man,” he ingrained, “And you certainly do not serve Dean Winchester.”

                _Dean. Dean Dean_. Castiel clung to each memory of him, his eyes, his laugh, his jokes that made absolutely no sense, but somehow they made all the sense in the world. _Cut, rip, snap._ Scream. _God, help me._

                “You serve heaven.”

                “I serve heaven.”

                “You do not serve man.”

                “I do not serve man.”

                “You do not serve _Dean Winchester_.”

                Castiel choked, “I do not.”

                “Do not _what_?” Zachariah prompted, a knife deep into the muscle of his wing.

                Castiel screamed early in anticipation.

                “ _Do not what?”_

                “’If anyone wants to be first, he shall be last of all and servant of all,’” Castiel quoted, “Mark 9:35”

                There was a sickening snap as Castiel’s entire left wing was disconnected. Castiel shouted and screamed and wept, clinging to the binds.

                “How dare you use the Word of God against me?” Zachariah was livid as he cut another inch of flesh away. “How dare you twist words? _Father’s_ words?”

                “They are not—“ Castiel gasped and sobbed, but still made an intelligible sentence. “They are not twisted.”

                The wing was healed again and then snapped away and it felt just as agonizing the second time.

                _Dean, Dean, Dean, save me_ , Castiel prayed.

                “You serve heaven.”

                “I serve heaven.”

                “You do not serve man.”

                “I do not serve man.”

                “And you certainly do not serve Dean Winchester.”

                Cut, rip, snap, rip, snap, cut, slash, _break_.

                “ _I certainly do not serve Dean Winchester!”_

~~*~~

                Ask whoever you want, but no one would be as certain of it as Dean. Something was wrong with Castiel. He never met his eyes anymore, Dean never had to remind him of personal space, he never called, never popped up just to check up on them. It was just… It was just wrong. There was something electrifying from him before, something comfortable and something warm. Now it was all cold and apathetic as the first time they met. It was like sitting in a pool where the water was heating ever so slowly—so slowly that you can’t realize it’s heating up—and then it was flushed with ice.

                It was impossible to talk to him for long. The longer they stayed together the icier and colder it became. The darker Castiel’s eyes became. The more quickly Castiel left. In fact, after the first encounter when he returned, he never flew anywhere, he oddly walked. It was a few months later when he started flying again, but even so he was reluctant. The more he poofed away, however, the more accustomed he became to it. It was almost like watching someone fly for the first time all over again.

                “Castiel,” Dean prayed softly, “Are you hearing me?”

                There was no answer. There hardly was anymore.

                “Cas, man, I need to talk to you.”

                There was a crash as Castiel fell into the bedside table. He gripped the side, forcing himself up again. His face was pained.

                “Cas, what the hell?” he rushed over and helped him up. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

                “What do you need?” his voice was hoarse.

                “Cas?”

                Castiel’s eyes never met his. Dean set him down on the bed. Thousands of question flashed through the room, both from each other. _What was wrong with Cas?_ Why was Dean touching him like that? _Is he hurt?_ Will you never stop? _Why can’t you talk to me about it?_ Please, never stop?

                Dean started to talk his arms away but felt how distressed Castiel felt when he was moving away. He kept touching him.

                “Cas, you gotta speak to me,” Dean prodded. “What’s up with your angel mojo?”

                “Just tell me whatever you needed to,” Castiel changed the subject. “What do you need?”

                “I need you to tell me what the hell is wrong!”

                An icey field seemed to encircle Castiel. His voice grew lower.

                “Nothing is the matter. I was merely feeling weary. I miscalculated. Is that all you require?”

                Dean blinked, taken aback by the sudden change in tone. His body stiffened and his shoulders squared, slowly and robotically correcting himself.

                “Look at me!” Dean shouted.

                Castiel’s eyes flinched and as if by instinct met Dean’s. Dean fell silent at the amount of raw pain that was pouring from Castiel’s eyes. His hands moved on their own, trying to comfort him in a small rub on his back. There was a blaring noise akin to the same noise Dean used to hear before he met Castiel in Jimmy’s vessel. There was shattering as every glass in the room broke. A few chairs even splintered and fell. Castiel curled in on himself, and that’s when Dean realized that was a _scream_.

                “Cas, _Cas_! What the hell was that?!” he asked panicked.

                “Stop, please, please, _please_ stop!” Castiel begged in sobs as his mind flashed back. “Dean help me! _Help me!_ ”

                His voice cracked and he slipped into Enochian first and then back into his true voice. Dean had to let go of Castiel to cover his eyes as he let out a shout of his own.

                “Cas! Castiel, shut up!” Dean screamed.

                Castiel realized nothing was happening, his eyes opened and he felt a rush of regret as he saw Dean take his hands away with traces of blood in the palms.

                “I hurt you,” Castiel stated sadly and reached a hand gingerly to his cheek. A tingling sensation overcame Dean and his ears no longer hurt.

                “I-It’s cool,” Dean said, still shaken. “What was that?”

                Castiel looked ashamed for a moment. “It was nothing. I had just remembered something.”

                Dean looked incredulous. “What the hell did you remember?” he blurted before realizing it was something Castiel may not have been comfortable talking about. Even so, whatever it was pretty damn bad if it had that effect on him.

                “Please, just tell me whatever it was you called me here for,” Castiel looked desperate to change topics.  
                “ _This_ is what I wanted to talk about.”

                With effort, Castiel stood. “Well then I must leave.”

                “Cas, so help me, I will hold you down if that’s what I have to do to get this out of you.” Dean held his wrist.

                _“You are Falling, and I will hold you down and get this sin out of you.”_

                Castiel trembled and Dean had never seen such fear. Castiel shook his hand away and staggered back, hitting the wall and sinking down, attempting to greaten any distance between them. He held his hands up in front of him.

                “Please, please no more! I will not disobey!” he shouted.  “Don’t, please, _please…”_

                Dean felt frozen, his heart stopped completely.

                “I am sorry!” he begged and started talking in Enochian.

                Dean swallowed a lump in his throat, taking a step forward. “Cas?” he asked in a small voice. “Cas, I’m not going to hurt you.”

                Castiel’s face was tear-streaked as he continued to beg in Enochian. When Dean touched Castiel’s shoulder there was another high pitched celestial scream. Despite everything in his mind that warned against it, Dean held his arms and pulled him into a tight hug.

                “Castiel! Cas! Cas, nothing’s going to hurt you!” he shouted and rubbed his thumbs in circles on his forearms. He felt Castiel fall relaxed, or at least more than he used to be. His breath was sharp and jagged. His body shook.

                “ _Help me_ ,” slipped past Castiel’s lips as if he was still reliving the flashback, and Dean had never heard a smaller, more helpless voice in his life.

                “What do you need?” Dean asked panickedly.

                “ _Help me_ ,” Castiel repeated, broken.

                “What do I _do?!_ ” Dean demanded, unable to think straight with the shambles of an angel in his arms. “Castiel, what is _wrong_?”

                Castiel swallowed thickly. “Don’t let him take me,” he whispered fearfully as if Zachariah would hear him. “Please, Dean, you can’t let him take me.”

                “Let who take you? Who did this to you?” Dean’s words were rushed as if there was a time limit.

                But Castiel shook his head.

                With anger flaring up inside him, Dean’s voice rose in authority. “ _Who_ , Castiel? A _name_.”

                “Help me, Dean, Dean, Dean, please,” Castiel seemed to be on a loop.

                Dean sighed shakily, running his hands through Castiel’s hair comfortingly. “I won’t let him,” Dean promised, though he had no idea whom. “I promise you no one will hurt you again.”

                “Please,” Castiel begged, and Dean had no idea what he was asking for. “Please,” he repeated.

                Dean never thought he’d see someone so powerful so powerless. Someone so great so weak. Someone so beautiful so dull, bright so soft, so, _so_ …

                “Cas,” Dean started softly when Castiel seemed to have calmed down in the slightest. “What happened to you?”

                Castiel was quiet for a moment, wishing to disappear but knowing his injured wing would not allow it. Every shard of pain was leaking out and he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t take anything anymore, and without this _filter_ he’d created, _things_ would pour out. Things he didn’t want to come out.

                “I—“ he choked on his next words. He didn’t even know where to start, what to say.

                “Shh,” Dean’s fingers threaded through Castiel’s hair again. “Just tell me who it was. What they did to you.” And he swore he would kill them or worse.

                There was a stretching silence. Castiel’s mouth opened and for a moment, nothing came out.

                “Zachariah,” he finally said. “He—“ he stopped, unable to even come close to describing it.

                Dean’s arms around him tightened. “That asshole, what’d he do?”

                Castiel swallowed thickly. “I-I can’t . . . I don’t know how to say it.”

                “Try,” Dean wanted to know exactly what he did so he could repeat it and where did this protectiveness come from?

                Castiel collected his thoughts for a moment. And after what felt like decades, Castiel spoke. “Take your arms away,” he told him softly. “I’ll . . . I’ll show you.”

                Dean nodded stiffly and did as requested. Castiel looked uncomfortable for a second and then shed his coat, then tie and shirt. Dean felt strange about Castiel stripping and was completely lost as to why (both the reason why he was stripping and why he was feeling strange.) As Dean could see, Castiel was completely unharmed.

                “Close your eyes,” Castiel said in a small voice, and faithfully, Dean did as asked.

                There was a blinding light, so bright that Dean had to squeeze his eyes tighter and then cover his eyes with his hands. The light dimmed slowly and for a while, it was completely silent.

                “You can look,” Castiel’s voice was feeble.

                As Dean opened his eyes, the room was a sun brighter. Two large ebony wings outstretched before him, shining brightly and blindingly. He felt his voice lost in the beauty that were his wings. He had never seen anything more lovely. The feathers looked so _soft_ and Dean wondered vaguely if Castiel would let him touch them.

                Castiel turned slowly, showing his back and a bone that was disconnected from his back.

                “This, at least last time,” he said gravely.

                Dean winced just looking at it. It was bleeding or anything, but somehow he just _felt_ it.

                “Shit,” he cursed, “C-Can you . . . Um, y’know heal it?”

                “I can heal humans and animals,” Castiel said stonily, “I cannot heal angels. Only Archangels and God can heal angels.”

                There was silence in the room, but nothing needed to be said.

                “Can I touch them?” Dean blurted the question that had been on rerun nonstop.

                Castiel looked like he’d been electrocuted. “Touch them? Why would you want to touch them?”

                Dean looked away, feeling foolish. “Well, I dunno, they look soft.”

                Castiel blinked uncomprehendingly. “They are not… unattractive?”

                “Unattractive? Dude can you not see them? They’re b—“ he was about to say beautiful before he caught himself. Dean Winchester did _not_ use words like “beautiful.”  Then he saw Castiel’s rejected eyes. “They’re beautiful,” he finished.

                Castiel still seemed confused and looked to his wings. “Not many angels have black wings,” he said softly, “I am often said to be born disobedient because of them.”

                “Born—That’s bullshit man!”

                “Is it not true?”

                Dean was taken aback by how confident Castiel sounded. He truly believed the beautiful wings were what made him “evil.”

                “It _isn’t_ ,” he insisted. “What color are everyone else’s wings?”

                Castiel looked away for a moment. “Nearly everyone has white wings. Gabriel has brown wings,” he paused. “I know no one with black wings. I have only heard stories.”

                Dean felt an intimate air between them, still wanting to touch his wings, but since they were past that topic he didn’t want to bring it up right away. “What stories?” he asked softly, deciding if they were going chick-flick, they were going all the way.

                Castiel fell relaxed in Dean’s arms and Dean continued with comforting gestures, avoiding his wings so not to disturb him. Castiel started to tell him stories of other angels with black wings, and Dean realized each one with black wings had all been to Hell, one had perished there and the others had returned to Earth and later Fallen. It seemed like a touchy topic, but Castiel didn’t seem out of his comfort zone.

                “How long ago did you break your wing?” Dean asked gingerly when their voices died down.

                Castiel shifted uncomfortably. “I . . . Seven months,” and when Dean didn’t reply immediately, he responded, “Most of my wings mended on their own, it’s just that one . . . That one bone that can’t heal. There are not angel doctors since angels have not really been hurt. Only angels can hurt each other, and it’s . . .” his voice died. “So it most likely will not heal on its own.”

                Dean nodded solemnly. They sat there for another half hour before Dean spoke again, the question bubbling up.

                “Y’know, it’s fine if not and stuff, but I’m still wondering if I could . . . Maybe, touch your wings?” he repeated hopefully.

                Castiel studied him for a moment, the silence strangling Dean just before he nodded slowly and trustingly leaned onto Dean.

                Dean swallowed nervously and let his fingers graze the top of his right wing, the left being the broken one. He felt Castiel shift into a different position, but it didn’t seem like it hurt him. His fingers moved over the feathers and he felt like they were the only two beings in existence.

                “Wow,” he found himself saying and moved his fingers over the feathers again. “They’re really . . . Really soft. Like . . . Wow.”

                Castiel’s head moved to look up at Dean, his eyes brighter and happier. “It feels nice,” he said, and Dean found himself smiling.

                “Good,” he said lamely and continued to stroke his wings. It was only the two of them in the dingy motel room, and it was only the two of them in utter bliss. It was only the two of them, broken and taped together, who stood above all the pain and hours of tears of frustration of anger of sadness. It was only the two of them when Dean’s hands found their way framing Castiel’s face. There was no kiss. There was no traditional form of expression of love. There was Castiel. There was Dean. There was trust and there was faith.

                There was healing.


End file.
